What is Unknown
by apocalypticSkeletons
Summary: In an attempt to end the war Severus Snape saves Harry's life and the world begins to change. An accident and confusion, a great sadness and somehow, through it all, some people learn how to be happy again and not all of them are on the side of the light. Future M rating, maybe. Some Dumbledore bashing.
1. Chapter 1

"You are certain, Severus, that this is the boy's residence?" A skeletal man, tall and slim with burning red eyes stared not at the man he had named, but at the house in front of him. It was a good sized home, and looked awkwardly, impossibly perfect. It was nearly identical to every other house on the street.

"One hundred percent, my Lord." Severus replied. He felt bad about giving away the child's position, but he was tired of this war. He was tired of playing both sides and he was ready to end it as quickly as possible. He too stared at the house before him, with its manicured lawns and white fences, and rows of flowers and hedges under windows that were curtained with a creamy white lace. It seemed cold, too perfect and symmetrical, to clean.

Behind Severus, in his dark, dour appearance and imposing presence, and his Lord, in his skeletal, almost monstrous glory, stood another man and a woman. This pair was silent, not just quiet. The man looked ratty and haggard,hunched like a wild animal with matted hair and filthy, scarred skin that barely differed in colour from his dirt coloured, torn clothing. He wore a snarl on his face, teeth sharp and demented, and his light brown eyes almost glowing and raw. The woman beside him stood tall and proud, a barely sane grin splitting her regal looking face in two. She wore a torn black dress that looked as though it should have been elegant, long fingers with sharp, unkempt nails scrunching the fabric as her eyes, heavy and grey like the storm clouds and half hidden by a wild tangle of spiralling corkscrew curls, followed the stare of the two men in front of her.

"You may leave now Severus. I am no longer in need of you this night." His eyes never left the building in front of him.

"As you wish." And the sour man vanished in a cloud of heavy, acrid black smoke.

"How about you put up some anti apparition wards, Bellatrix dear." He turned his violently scarlet eyes towards the woman, who gave a little cackle and bowed. She placed a dainty looking clawed hand over her chest. In her other hand she grasped what appeared at first to be a broken stick, made of dark and dry wood with a mean looking point. Little etchings ran along it's surface, half hidden under the pale skin of her hand.

"It would be my pleasure, my Lord." And when she stood straight again she pursed her lips and raised the long, crooked lump of a wand and swished it briefly to and fro. Her eyes narrowed. She hummed under her breath, slow and oddly pitched, with a look of great concentration on her harsh, anorexic looking face until a very faint, barely discernible, bright bloody red glow burst into existence and spread until they couldn't see where it ended any longer. If faded to nothing almost as soon as is had shown itself.

"Excellent," His half bored praise made her titter shrilly into her narrow fingers. "Would you care to add some of our other favourites?"

The wild looking woman nodded slightly.

"How about a Tumultu Ward series, my Lord, or an Apage series and maybe our favoured wards of the Distractio Warding series?" She offered, lips pursed. " Perhaps a Cruent or a Crudus?"

She looked very thoughtful.

"I think the Crudus. What do you think my Lord? Anything else you would like?"

"That is fine. Perhaps a Stellae curse ward." The man replied without warmth. It pleased him that her insanity did not affect her spell casting. The woman was brilliant when it came to curses and wards, not that anyone could tell after a few bouts of her favourite Crutatious curse.

"Perfect my Lord. Absolutely perfect." She purred and squealed the words affectionately, clapping her hands in front of her. She wrung out her hands and flipped her wrists flicking her wand out in front of her.

The two men watched as she cast gleefully, her usually scattered mind thankfully not preventing her from weaving a powerful web of spellwork. They watched as her face became raggedly protective, the emotion morphing her face into an even harsher light as she muttered "ambago totalus" and then "discedite abiapage", facial features shifting into great joy as she snarled the words "distraho hostemeum" and it's counterpart "distineo dristraho" that would link together with the anti apparition wards in a way that only she seemed to ba able to manage, and the absolute cruelty on her face as she screamed "Crudusanguilis benefacitis" to the world. Her voice dropped back into almost a whisper as she rasped "violentafidem estellae maledictio" with crisp precision that rarely showed up in her speech.

"Now the door. Fenrir, if you please. Do not worry about making it quiet, we only need to be fast now." The deathly white man spoke again as Bellatrix continued to cast wards and curses for any who dared to get too near, the most interesting part of her work finished as she dropped into even more commonly known spells and a fair few they knew she would never tell a soul what they did. The other man did not bring out any wand or weapon, merely charged the locked front entrance of number 4 Privet Drive as his Lord had asked and he dealt with the door. He rammed his shoulder violently into the wood, head cracking sharply against it before the door gave away. The wood cracked and moaned and the lock broke with a harsh metal clink and a delicate tumble of little pieces, slamming it's mass back into the wall behind it. A clear dent showed where the man's shoulder had gouged the wood with inhuman strength. The wall behind the door was not so lucky as Fenrir seemed to be with his lack of injuries, the doors knob smashed straight through the wood, paper and plaster and cracks and dents littering what wasn't completely broken. The force and speed he had used did not appear to have done any more damage than to lightly bruised him at most and an exhilarated, alarmingly wide and fangy smile ripped over his dirty grey face.

A whale of a man thundered downstairs with a roar, face a brilliant puce and fists clenched in fury. He wore an ugly house coat and powder blue pinstripped sleeping trousers. His mouth opened to release his rage on the intruders, to demand they left, but Bellatrix raised her wand and beat him to the punch.

"Stupefy!" She shrieked, malicious glee on her face. The fat man fell down the remaining stairs, landing on his face with a grotesque, squishy crunch.

"Shrink him or something and we shall place him in the dungeons back home. You may enjoy him later." Bellatrix cackled again, though he had not specified which of them would get to play with the fat man. She rushed to follow her masters wishes.

"He is upstairs, my Lord," Fenrir's voice matched his appearance, raspy and gruff and it left you feeling dirty. "With two others. Blood has been spilled."

"Round up the others, Greyback, quickly now. And of course blood has been spilled, a fat muggles." The chalky white man looked almost bored.

"Not the muggle scum, something or someone else. It's fresh, but it's not his. Some of it seems to be... not as fresh." Fenrir growled lowly.

"Is it the boy's?"

"I cannot tell, not now. But there is so much of it…" And the filthy excuse of a man thundered up the stairs, the second one creaked loudly in complaint, and clawed fingers that rivaled that of his female companion ripped the ugly floral print paper on the ugly, fanged smile was still on his face.

"My lord?" Bellatrix held her hand up, offering to let him go first.

"After you. Why don't you pay the Potter boy a visit?" He suggested, slitted pupils aimed just above her head.

"You are so kind. I would be honoured." And she slipped up the stairs almost silently. She crossed the holes town into the wall paper with a set of her own violent slashes. She snickered and cackled madly as she tore more holes into the paper.

"Behind that door." The gruff voice of Fenrir Greyback seemed a tad unsettled as he pointed toward a door coated with locks, there was a cat flap installed at the bottom. There was a very fat boy cowering under his claws and an unpleasant looking blonde woman pleading with him almost silently. He ignored her and kept casting little glances at the locked door.

"What is wrong, my friend?" The skeletal Lord almost purred. The skin where his eyebrows should have been were arched oddly, wrinkling the chalky white forehead ever so slightly as his slit nostrils flared. You could see every muscle in his cheeks move as he frowned.

"We do not have time for hesitance, Greyback. Not when we have wasted so much as it is. Dumbledore's Order could be here any second." The calm, bored voice had slipped down to a faint warning growl. Bellatrix was staring at the filthy man too.

"No hesitance, my Lord, I promise. Just… so much blood… I cannot hear him moving but I know he is there." His eyebrows drew themselves into a near solitary line, divided only by a harsh line. Fenrir spared his Lord a glance, flicking his eyes back almost immediately. He looked almost puzzled.

"Bella, my dear, why don't you open that door for me?" The woman wasted no time in blasting in to smoldering pieces. Her creepily thrilled grin fell almost instantly.

"M-my Lord…?" She stammered faintly, stepping into the room. It was bare of personal items, covered in mountains of damaged and broken items. There was an unwashed mattress and blanket in one corner of the room, their should be white surfaces grey with dirt and stained with reddish brown splotches. A small desk with a lamp on it sat beside the bed, clearly damaged and marked with red stains, and on its other side, amidst the piles of wreckage, was a wardrobe and it too did not appear to be void of staining. And in the center of it all, curled weakly in the floor in a still spreading pool of dark, dark red blood was Harry Potter, the child they had come for.

There was clear bruising on the child's face and his left arm was obviously broken. His knuckles were bloody and looked painful and his ankles swollen. He looked painfully thin, thinner than any of those who had been imprisoned had been, and he was so, so pale under the blood and bruising. There were clear hand prints at his throat and slashes over his collarbones. His over sized clothing was so caked and plastered with blood that they almost looked as though they fit him. He did not appear to be breathing.

"What is it? Bella? Bellatrix?" A small, shrill sigh ran through the Dark Lords narrow nasal passages and he shoved her a little roughly to one side and stepped around her. He knew she had hit the door rather harshly and felt no guilt for potentially bruising the crazy woman, but he too froze at the sight that greeted him; the stains, the blood and the sixteen year old boy curled up on the floor among piles of broken items. He broke himself from the startling scene and moved farther into the room. He had not expected this at all…

"What is the meaning of this?" He hissed and spun violently on hi heel, red eyes fixed on the woman, who squeaked in alarm. She stuttered out a few terrified syllables before he stopped her.

"What is your name, muggle scum?" His eyes narrowed.

"P-P-Pet-tuni-ia D-D-D-" Her stammering was cut off again.

" _Silence_!" He commanded, a deathly calm backing the demand. "Are you directly responsible for this outrage? This _theft_?"

"Th-theft?"

"I demand an answer, Petunia. Now, before I allow my companions to break in their new toys now." It was cold as ice.

"T-toys?" She squeaked. "I-it wa-wasn't us. I-i-it-t w-wa-was V-Vernon, m-m-my h-husband."

"How convenient." The answer was snarky and unhappy, but before he could respond was a slight tug at his robes. His red eyes glared down at the other woman in the house, dark haired and wild and crouched on the floor.

"Forgive me my Lord, for this interruption. He is still alive, but only just." Her voice was lacking it's normal, insane cackle and mocking nature. It still held love, and devotion, and a little bit of fear, but she seemed to be more lucid than she was most days. Her stormy orbs were directed at the floor beneath her, not up at her Lord or where her long, bony fingers had grasped the great sweeping swaths of his robes. He had never heard her move to check the boy.

"We could use this, save the boy and turn him against Dumbledore and his blasted order, but if we do not act soon he shall pass." She hunched her back and touched her forehead to the floor, crouching beneath him as any good servant. "If we cannot turn him completely then perhaps we can gain his neutrality, and an oath that he shall not interfere with your plans. If we show him kindness and honesty we may gain his trust!"

"It could benefit us greatly. Maybe he knows the full prophecy… Bring him. We leave now." And he stalked out of the room, leaving the woman to bind the child and levitate him downstairs. She kept a hand of his cold arm to steady him as she went, following Fenrir and his two quaking muggles. She felt the one she had shrunk and stunned weighing down her pocket and the mad desires to torture him to nothing flitted back into her cloudy mind.

"Bellatrix, the wards. Release them." The reptilian man snarled when they stood on the opposite side of the street. The woman did so, smiling madly as men and woman burst into being on the other side of the street facing the house. Several ran into the building, screaming and shouting. Those that stood outside slowly turned around.

The Dark lord placed one arm through Bellatrix's, her other arm wrapping around the boy's body, and he grasped the arm of his disgusting male companion, who clutched with whimpering fat boy and his sobbing mother.

"Voldemort, Tom, please-" An old man with a long being and visually offending bright blue robes took a step forward, knobbed wand held out. His eyes widened in horror at the state of the sixteen year old in Bellatrix's hold and his voice stopped working.

"I do not so, Dumbledore," Voldemort said slowly, grinning lightly as he looked the aged headmaster of his old school right in the eyes. "Farewell."

They vanished just as Severus had earlier, in a cloud of acrid smoke that burst into the sky. The ground where they had been, they knew, likely smoldered with angry spells.

Near where they had been, on the ground, Dumbledore turned to an unpleasant teacher, his faithful spy in this war and the last one. The man who had directed the Dark Lord and his followers to this place without the headmasters knowledge to this very place not even half an hour previously.

"Did you know, Severus? Tell me, did you know?" And the man, with his hair hanging in greasy curtains about his face and his black eyes meeting the headmasters with cold, firm finality. He spoke in a low, slow drawl.

"I did not." It was not exactly a lie. "I was not told of this."

And he had not been. He hadn't known that this is the way it would end and he had told them. The image of his best friends child, limp and still and coated in so much of his own red blood was burned into his mind's eye. Guilt turned his stomach and his mind spun.

"Go, go and see what you can find out, please. Anything, my boy. Why did they take his body if he has died?" The ancient wizard seemed so defeated, ashamed and confused. Without any more words between them the old man trudged towards the likely empty house, Severus following slowly behind. He wanted to see.

They were guided upstairs, to the bloody room of broken belonging where Molly Weasley sobbed on the floor, the tips of her fingers dyed red. The sight was not pleasant. Dumbledore left quickly, as did most people.

Those who remained wandered the house, opening doors and cupboards, playing with the toaster sadly in the case of one Arthur Weasley, trying to find any clue, any hope. After all there was no mark burning above the house. There, right in the entrance hallway, was an unopened door with a padlock. A cupboard under the stairs.

The padlock was banished and the manual little sliding lock opened, and on a stained old cot was Harry Potter's magical belongings, crammed in with a few extra broken toys and a child's hand drawn picture labeled "Harry's room". He shrunk the belongings and took the picture, banishing the cot and a few spiders with it, and closed the door again. There was no need for those items to remain but he would remember them, that he knew. He felt ill.

"Anything in there?" A familiar woman's voice pierced his ears. Without looking at her he shook his head and left with the child's belongings in his pocket. He wasn't even sure exactly why he had done so, taking the child's belongings. After all it was likely he was dead. That house left a sour taste in his mouth and a bitter, angry feeling in his magic. He decided then that when he confirmed the child to be dead, if there wasn't a body left, he would bury the items at the site of his parents grave and hope it was enough.

He sent Lily a whisper of regret in his head. He missed her and if her child had died by his hands, even if he had not cast the curse, he knew she would not forgive him. But he was just so tired.

This time, he vanished with a faint pop.


	2. Chapter 2

"So how bad is he really?" The words fell crisply from a chalky white, lipless mouth. The brilliant eyes of the self titled Dark Lord Voldemort were fixated on an ancient looking book in his hands.

The other person in the room was a woman, tall and pale with a shimmering sheet of icy blonde hair and a slim, lightly pointed face. She stood tall but her eyes, a light grey-blue colour, were directed respectfully at the floor. She wore a long, elegant silvery blue dress, accented with almost navy gems at the neck and a belt around her waist.

"I am unsure of exactly how you wish for me to answer that. Mr. Potter will live, I can assure you that, but he has numerous broken bones, among other things, and he was bleeding internally as well. How he lost that much blood and survived is beyond me, my Lord, and to be frank I am concerned about his mental state, should he awaken." Her voice was strong, though if you were to really look you could see her hand shaking the slightest bit.

"You think he will not, Narcissa?" Cinnabar eyes left the yellowed and spotted pages to gaze somewhat imploringly at his hostess.

"I will admit I have my doubts. There was some blunt force head trauma, a fair bit actually. Combines with all the broken bones and the blood loss, the damage to the poor boys organs, I wouldn't be surprised if his body placed itself into a coma. Even his magic was heavily drained, and that's the only reason I have to guess at why he's even still alive. He's been starved and beaten and it would not shock me in the least if he never regained consciousness." She stated all of this rather bluntly and unhappily.

"What were the worst of his wounds then? Only to give me a good picture, my dear, as to what was done to him." And the dark wizard returned to his book. He wasn't reading it at the moment, merely observing the age worn pages as he listened to the woman speak.

"A punctured and collapsed lung was probably the worst of the internal injuries. The other was bruised, as are his kidneys and his liver is in a bit of an appalling state. Externally I suppose would be his back, poor thing was lashed to the bone. The concussion could also be a tad problematic."

"You didn't mention a concussion earlier." Voldemort murmured quietly. He knew she would hear him.

"No, my Lord, I mentioned blunt force head trauma. It fractured his skull and gifted him a nasty concussion." Narcissa's response was not happy at all.

"That is… unfortunate. Do you recommend I bring in better healers, or do you think yourself capable?" It was a dangerous both knew it.

"I am capable of handling his care should you wish me to though with a job of such magnitude I would not be insulted if you brought in more practicing healers." It was always a political game, no matter who was speaking. "And with such a responsibility Sererus' talents would not be amiss."

"I am sure the old fool will send him along shortly." And the man said old fool had called Tom waved a hand dismissively. "What have you done for the boy so far?"

"Forced the few blood replenishers I had on hand down his throat and gave his body a good start on repairing some of the worst of the internal damage, I only made a real effort with the severely damaged lung as it was the most life threatening. The rest of his wounds are bound for now, broken bones stabilized. I've set the concussion on the mend but I have to wait for the blood replenishers to leave his system before I can give the boy a dose of Skelegro or Skelemend. I am debating which one would be better still." It wasn't said with any real formality, though there was a slight sense of finality in the elegant woman's tone.

"I see. Thank you Narcissa, you have been quite the asset here." He nodded to her faintly, dismissively.

Just before she reached the door of the room they were, it was only a small study but it was very cozy and tastefully decorated, he called her back. A little thrill of fear raced down her spine as she turned.

"My Lord?" Her strong voice sounded a bit strained.

"Would you mind sending your sister to me before you return to the boy. I am in need of her presence."

Narcissa nodded and fled the room the Dark Lord had chosen to spend his time in.

He returned to his book, carefully reading the passage. Though the book possessed no visible title any longer, the words long since peeled off and worn away, he knew it to be called The Booke of Olde. It's original title was long forgotten.

He'd worked hard to find the thing in the first place and eventually found it hidden on the outskirts of a little French town. It was a gold mine of information, depending on what you were looking for. He'd searched long and hard, after hearing of it. Full of old laws and rituals, long forgotten curses and ancient wards. It had become a bit of a personal favourite. He could turn the Ministry on it's head with the laws in this book alone, law's he knew had been forgotten and not abolished. He was certain if they had this book there would be more than three Unforgivable curses, though with some of what he knew that wasn't in the book there should still be a fair few more.

Voldemort did not have to wait too long for the woman he wished to see. He looked up when she entered the room and it pleased him to see Bellatrix stalking gracefully into the room less that ten minutes after he had asked for her. Her regularly present smile of insanity was splitting her face, heavy lidded eyes wide and alert.

"You called, my Lord?" She cooed. She pursed her lips a little and tilted her head almost mockingly, heavy black curls falling this way and that in their unstyled mess. Her tattered black dress swished lazily over the floor as she moved.

"I did. I must ask what you and Fenrir did with the muggles found at Harry Potter's place of residence." He didn't phrase it as a question, he did not even try.

"The woman and piggy scum boy are relatively unharmed. The fat man is still bleeding and I know Greyback took a lot of pleasure in that!" She tittered faintly.

"Was he bitten?" And Bellatrix's curls flew every which way as she shook her head."Where have you placed them, then? I need them alive for now, I doubt the great Harry Potter would want to hear we slaughtered his family just yet. In the future we might, but for now they are our bargaining chip with the boy."

"In the dungeons, they are. Shall we visit them?" She smiled a cruel, playful smile. Voldemort spared a thought that, were she not so crazy, she would be a very beautiful witch. Even after her stay in Azkaban you could see she was quite attractive or she had the ability to be. Her gaunt, stretched out looking features could easily be softened, and they were much better now than immediately after regaining her freedom. She had looked like a skeleton with hair and eyes, and even for some such as the DarkLord it had been a little off putting.

"Let us do just that. I am sure he would love to see you my dear." His tongue curled over the words with an odd grace. With the insane woman cackling and giggling at his side he let her leave the room before himself. She quite literally skipped down the halls, bright eyed and eager.

On the main floor they found Severus, unhappy looking and dour as usual. He was sent off to Narcissa almost wordlessly, rather harshly dismissed in the desire to visit the muggles. Voldemort could have left them to stew there longer, but he was sure Bella would run ahead and he wanted them sane and able to answer his questions.

He was able to admire the perfection of the dungeons as they strolled down. At a first glance they appeared to be nothing more than a cellar, not unusual in a manor such as this. If one knew where to look however it would become quite obvious this was a place of torture and great torment, of many wasted souls.

Filthy and dank, it was a damp space, and where there should have been silence there was a great bellowing. Demands.

When the dark magic users stood before them, silent and oppressive, the fat, shouting man rattled the bars he was trapped behind. In a corner his wife and son huddled in terror. The boys pink skin looked unnaturally grey and the woman, too bony and narrow with a long, long face and her skinny arms squeezing the boy was white as a sheet. The man however was an alarming shade of ugly, blotchy pink under the incarnadine colour that coated the rest of his fat flesh.

"Why don't you give him a reason to scream?" And in seconds the man was on the floor, thrashing and wailing like an angry toddler.

"Dad!" The fat boy cried out, reaching out a hand towards his father before flinching back and huddling against his mother. The woman said nothing, holding her son a little bit tighter and sobbing roughly into the child's shoulder.

"Enough." and Bellatrix held it only a few malicious seconds longer. He decided to allow it this time.

"We have some questions and you will answer them." The Dark Lord said in an alarmingly arctic voice. The fat man grumbled something that sounded suspiciously like "go to Hell".

"What is your name, muggle scum." It was not a question. However the man made no move to answer.

"Bella." And the man was thrashing and screaming again. He looked like someone having a nasty fit, though he sounded like he was being tortured, which of course he was. She stopped the spell on her own this time.

"What. Is. Your. Name. Scum." He stressed each word this time, happy to see the tortured creature shudder.

"H-his name is V-Vernon." The woman in the corner sobbed. She seemed less shaky now. The man made a small sound of outrage.

"Petunia," the red eyed man drawled slowly. "Why don't you come here?"

"Don't you do it, th-these people are savages! Fr-freaks!" The mad half bellowed from the ground.

"Crucio!" He snarled the spell on his own this time, enjoying the man's thrashing before cutting the spell after only a few seconds.

"Do not fret, you seem more cooperative is all. Continue to do so and we may go easy on you." Bellatrix gave him a bit of a look but did not question it. "Bring your son too if you will."

The shaking pair of bleached pale muggles approached the bars, a fair bit away from Vernon.

"Yes, that's it. Why don't you come out of that cell for me, yes, that's it." The reptilian being purred. He turned from them towards his faithful servant.

"Bella my dear, won't you be ever so kind to bring these two to a nicer cell, perhaps far down the hall. We'll spare them the sight what shall happen, for now, they have been good." The woman grumbled a little but drew them away none the less. Her curved want was spinning in her fingers and heels clicking sharply as she walked. The sound faded a little and a little distantly the slamming of bars could be heard.

Her heels clicked their way back along the stone until she was again at his side.

"Why? If you do not mind my asking that is, m'lord." She muttered furiously.

"So you do not have as much temptation to introduce them to your special brand of hospitality. Leave him alive, and sane, but do have your fun. Tell me what knowledge you gain at the end, I think you know what I'm looking for." And he stalked away from the barking laugh of the overjoyed woman. The fat man's screams followed him until he tooke his exit of the cellar-like area and slammed the door behind him.

"How tiresome." He murmured irritably to the closed door, offering it a slight glare of displeasure. He did hope Bellatrix got the information he was looking for. And hopefully before she drove the man mad. Insane, she may be, but she was by far one of his most loyal.

He wandered the halls a little, passing dead Malfoy ancestors and precious heirlooms, priceless art and what sometimes felt like a ridiculous amount of doors. As pleased as he was to have this much space at his disposal sometimes it just felt ridiculous. Especially with the only normal residents of the place staying mostly in a select few rooms. They were afraid of him, with good reason he liked to think, but so far as that went for socializing purposes he would only ever admit to himself that it was sometimes a bit lonesome. The few that regularly sought him out always wanted something, were reporting, or for the most part were Bellatrix and the cackling madwoman wasn't always the best conversationalist. Azkaban certainly hadn't helped that though even with her crimes he was never really certain why they'd tossed her in there instead of locking her in the Janus Thickey ward in St. Mungos.

'Though with that being said she did torture two of their permanent residents into insanity.' He thought. 'Mad, she may be, but it isn't entirely her fault, the poor inbred thing.'

Sure it was a bit nasty to think that about someone so loyal to him, and clearly loved him in her own, very strange way, but she was still a little more inbred than most purebloods, whether they were among his Death Eaters or not.

Finally he decided to seek out Severus Snape, who of course he found in Narcissa's makeshift hospice room. The woman was beginning to look a bit worn out at this point, and she gave him a low curtsey when he entered. She didn't spare him a second glance after that, looking over charts and floating pages, a few texts here and there surrounded her. The man he had come for did not turn at all, black eyes focused on the limp, bruised, black haired body of the boy on the bed. What wasn't shades of blue and purple on his skin was blown and green and if it somehow missed both of those it was pale as an inferi or angry and red. Eyes that they knew to be brilliantly Avada Kedavra green were swollen and bruised black. He looked as he had when they'd found him, though significantly less bloody and a lot more colourful; he looked to have already passed on. And just as he felt when he say the child lying on the floor all broken and bloody, he felt cheated. He felt so cheated and reproachful, and while he wasn't exactly mad or anything for the boy he was furious that it had been muggles to make him feel this way.

"Severus?" He intoned lightly. The potions master had been good to him, seeking him out more than others had even when he had not had something to ask, or report. The man had been an even greater asset to him than Bellatrix or her healer sister, or his many people in the ministry.

"Why?" The dour man asked after a long, unpleasantly chill silence. "Just what, and why?"

"His muggle relatives. Shockingly it was Bellatrix who suggested we save him, try and turn him to our side or gain his neutrality at least. It would be funny to see the reactions of the light, if he wakes. I suppose Narcissa told you of his injuries?" This child, limp and still, had been the bane of his existence, his enemy and the very thing most of his plots and plans revolved around, and here the boy lay still and it was not by his own skeletal hand. In Voldemort's head everything was changing, new plots and plans, old ones being altered and altogether abolished. His mind raced as he wondered how this would all fit into his goals now.

"She did. He will wake. Potter has a knack for the impossible." Though it was said with no small amount of angered irritability there was the slightest hint of fondness in his voice too.

"I can hear the affection in your voice. If you care for the brat why lead us to him?" Voldemort asked lightly. This is one answer he could care not to know, though he'd like the answer he would not be upset at all to not have it.

"This is the son of a woman I loved once, my best friends child. I've spent so long keeping him alive, the typical Gryffindor fool, but I tire of this war my Lord. She may have never forgiven me for his death but she has been dead a long time. This was simply the easiest way I saw to end it, and the old fool of a headmaster… well some things are more appropriately left unsaid in the presence of a lady and a child." The Dark Lord gave a little hmm of affirmation and turned to the woman, still absorbed in her charts and readings.

"Narcissa, if you can spare a moment?" Her blueish eyes met his for the briefest second. "How is the boy now?"

"He's more stable than he was. Not out of danger by any means, but he is better. The blood replenishers did their job, and those tricky ribs floating around in there haven't wound up back in his lung." There was ice in her voice, but also warmth; a very odd combination. "He's still not breathing right at all, but no longer asphyxiating entirely and the worse of his lungs is on the mend. Still waiting to dose him with the Skelemend, but I cannot do that for several hours."

"How long are we looking at until he should be in good enough condition to regain consciousness?" It was a pretty loaded question and the eerie melanic eyes of the potions master flickered in her direction as well.

"Should he wake at all, maybe a week? If more than two months passes he is not waking up at all, but within that time frame there is still some small amount of hope if that is what you are looking for." She never looked away from her papers.

"Why a week? Could we force him awake?" And this time the woman scoffed before remembering to whom she was speaking to and promptly apologizing profusely.

"If it is a proper coma, a simple enervate would do nothing, and more complex waking charms or rituals could be dangerous. At the two month mark I may allow it as a last ditch effort, but not a second sooner, do you hear me? Not to be rude, but you are not the healer my Lord. As for a week, he's suffered severe head trauma, so who's to say if he wakes he'll even know who we are, or if he'll have forgotten some things? His brain and body need time to heal. Magic can do amazing things, miraculous things when you think on it, but it is not infallible as I am sure you know. He has a concussion, a bad one, and by all means he should be dead." Passionately would be the only way to describe her words. Calm and clear as a crystal phial her sweet voice was as strong and proud as ever. The woman's eyes were stormy, almost furiously so, and her hands were clenched and white knuckled at her sides. The silvery blue robes fluttered around her as if caught in a slight breeze and the long sleeved flapped lightly at at her wrists, where they loosened.

The two men in the room simply nodded, accepting her wisdom and knowledge without question. Even the Dark Lord Voldemort knew not to further piss off an angry woman, especially a mother. He'd learned that lesson with a light loving mudblooded witch, he did not care for a repeat lesson with a dark witch of any caliber or pedigree.

He fled the room pretty quickly afterwards. It's not as though he had a reason to be there any more, so he returned to his chosen study. The room had a lot of white gold coloured accents, and the walls were charmed a pleasant shade of blue. It felt like being at a beach almost, with silvery birchwood shelves lined with books and a matching desk and comfortable chairs.

The Booke of Olde was still sitting on the desk, dark and as old as it's known name, but he no longer felt like reading its contents. He selected another from the many shelves and and opened it to a random page. It looked like one of his parsel texts, a journal of someone's, they hadn't named themselves. It looked like it was one the cover once, but the cover was so ratty it was hard to tell it was even a book sometimes. Only the spine of the book was in remotely good condition. The words dragged weirdly and he understood them, though if someone asked him to write the words in English he would probably look at them funny. First the person who'd asked, then the English translation if he actually wrote it. Parseltongue was a funny language.

He didn't know how long he was absorbed in the text, though he's read it's entries before. A knock broke him from his text, and a very happy looking Bellatrix entered the room. Her hands were red and her cheeks an oddly splotchy pink. Her smile was very toothy and a tad alarming.

"My Lord." She was very breathless.

"Did you learn anything?" And she nodded. Voldemort nodded his bald white head towards one of the additional chairs in the room, which she took happily before she began to delve into the tales of her fun.

"Oh you wouldn't believe how much he screamed! He seems to like the word 'freak' quite a bit." She basically purred the words. "The slimy blue old man had them being paid. Said something about blood wards."

"Excellent. We can use that." And Bellatrix giggled lightly into her claw tipped, bloody fingers. Really her nails were quite alarming, in their long, sharply pointed and slightly dirty glory. He always figured she spelled them to be harder, as he never saw her with a broken one ever. The only time he'd seen her nails short was just after Azkaban, where they were bitten to the quick and bloody.

"Was there anything else?" And once again she nodded a little. She was still panting pretty hard.

"He said his son used to help him beat the boy, before he went to Hogwarts mostly. I spoke to the muggle woman before I came up, just a little, and she said she's glad her boy smartened up. 'Vernon' was the really bad, bad one." This was followed by another little giggle. "I wish I knew what she sang like, but you haven't told me I can play with her yet."

Voldemort made a little humming sound somewhere in his throat.

"We can use this to our advantage with the boy if he wakes up. If not you may have all the fun you like." Bellatrix's smile dropped then.

"If, my Lord?" Her words tilted.

"If. Narcissa doesn't think he'll wake up, she's given us a two month time frame for him to wake up on his own and after that we have essentially one chance to try and wake him. If he doesn't wake and he still breathes I will end it. Severus, unlike your sister, is certain he will wake up, just because it's Harry Potter we're talking about here. Personally I'm just hoping so I don't actively have to do anything yet." She seemed a little shocked.

"Does that men you're being-"

"Lazy? Not really. More like reconfiguring all of my plans, or most at least, to fit the boy on our side, preaching neutrality or dead. I never really counted on him being dead."

"Well…" Bellatrix seemed at a loss for words. Her lips were pursed and eyebrows drawn, hands folded lightly in her lap. The Dark Lord sighed.

"It doesn't matter. If he wakes, he wakes. If not, we can still take over this world and reshape it as we wish."

"Yes my Lord. Do you think I could visit 'Cissa, and the boy. I want to know how I should treat the muggle next time I see him. He claimed to have tired of his nephew, the Potter boy, and his freakishness at all hours of the day." She had sobered greatly.

"Of course. Trust me, you will be having a lot of fun with him in the future so you may wish to leave him with most of his mind for now." Bellatrix left with a nod and too drained now for more reading or planning the Dark lord retreated from the study to the quarters he had been gifted by the Malfoy's in the hopes of a good nights sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

It turns out Bellatrix was not even remotely pleases with the state of the boy. No one was entirely sure why she seemed to care, and the alarming woman was not to be trifled with or questioned unless you wished a very horrible death. She'd gone to visit when Narcissa had been banishing the blood filling the punctured lung, which the lovely blonde woman wasn't even entirely certain would ever completely heal, and almost immediately called for someone to heal the fat muggle man. She had quite a bit of fun and the man was missing some pieces. Nothing vital, the Dark Lord had been assured. He hadn't bothered to check for himself.

When she wasn't torturing the lump of fat in the dungeons, or taking care of basic functions and needs, she was cooing at the boys still form, running her fingers through his hair and her clawed fingers over his cheeks. Half of what she said was just mad ramblings, torture plans or memories of, and half was little pleas no one really understood when they heard them and mutterings that while insane could almost be deemed as affectionate. Even her sister was more than a little confused but no one was really commenting on it. Not to her face anyways, the first person who had done so was the last, and they were still banishing his entrails from the yard. Yaxley hand found his hand in a bush, and old Nott Sr had had a falling piece of intestine fall right on top of his head and he walked under a tree. The shriek they'd heard sounded less like prominent male Death Eater over the age of 40 and more like small female child ages four to seven.

Apparently no one had bothered to remove the disfigured face of the man from a spike on the front gate. They weren't entirely sure how it had wound up there in the first place, but no one questioned it out of fear they may be used as a demonstration. Bellatrix was a truly alarming woman.

Now the psychotic woman was sitting in the boys room. In her hand was another, significantly bloodier hand that was not attached to a body any longer. There was a knife in her other hand and a smile on her face, and she was singing rather loudly. Her voice wasn't pretty by any means, but nor was she actually a bad singer. Her voice tilted oddly and her entire body swayed with her song, all except the hand holding the knife that was carving rough words and patterns into dead flesh. The fingers were long and narrow with knobby and prominent knuckles, rather than thick and pudgy stubs, so it was likely the hand belonged to the massacred and nameless Death Eater.

"It is night and in this darkness little children want to play, it is night and in this darkness little children come my way..." And she giggled a little here. "I will keep them safe and sound so long as not a sound is made, I will shelter them from harm but here they face my lonely rage. Haunting haunting I am creeping up the stairs I come your way, with a knife held in my hand to keep your silly dreams at bay... It is night and in this darkness old drunkards stumble my way, it is night and in this darkness here his ugly blood does stain, he tried to run he tried to flee but all he ran into was me!"

Cackling a little she chucked the hand out the room's window. A girly scream followed. Not ol' Nott this time. Humming the tune of her made up song she turned to the limp, pale, still bruised form on the only bed in the room.

The dark Lord watched her calmly, standing beside Narcissa.

"Alright Bella what are you doing?" Narcissa's chilly voice was very analytical. The boy was healing slowly, even with magical aid. Much slower than he should. It was likely she didn't want her sister damaging the boy further, as if there was a change the crazy woman would do so. Somehow, in his unconscious state, he'd gained something akin to affection from her and anyone who thought she would hurt him right now would probably suffer for voicing those thoughts. She probably wouldn't damage him further, or kill him, just because it wouldn't be any fun.

"I heard, somewhere, that long sleeping ones can hear when you speak to them, near them." She answered calmly. Her eyes were bright and her fingers, now trailing over his cheeks, left reddish brown smears over his skin. It was unusual for her to ignore the presence of her Lord, yet she appeared to be doing so now. Narcissa looked at Voldemort questioningly.

"I believe she means that there is a stigma, I believe you could say, about people who have fallen into a comatose state. Supposedly they can hear what you are saying, and hypothetically they understand, but I do not think it has ever been proven. I think that originally the stigma came from the muggle world, and upon migrating here no one could really be bothered to test it, or testing was inconclusive. Most of those people involved in testing here never woke again I don't think. If memory serves I think the only ones that did woke with amnesia." Narcissa cast him an impressive look, for someone who he knew feared him. The woman was rather gutsy in her cowardice, he would giver her that. But then again he also knew that for the time being he needed her. A team of healers would likely be less effective in treating the boy if brought on now. He knew that she knew that.

They watched Bellatrix murmur to the child, not really listening to what she was saying.

It had been roughly a week since the boys arrival to the manor, and the woman left mostly to torture the fat muggle. She liked to bring little trinkets in the form of vials of blood or small, severed body parts that Narcissa wouldn't allow near the oy so they were left on a table by the door. There was a cursed necklace too, which was also not allowed in. Nor was the vase she'd filled with Draught of Living Death and roses, which oddly enough seemed to do just fine in their new environment. Or the shrunken heads.

No one knew where or why she'd gotten these things.

Or at least the things that weren't clearly from the overweight screaming lump of a man in Bella's play room.

Still ignoring the mad woman, for the most part, the sane pair of individuals spoke calmly on inane things. The weather, some minor plans and progress, the use of rose petals in some healing potions and moon stone in others. Benefits of bat spleens. And dragons liver. Kinda of dragon livers. Flobberworms were also mentioned. Severus would be proud. And then there was the muggle invention of the television. Severus would be a little less proud. Bella's singing. The pride would likely be dead by now. Nott's screaming. The pride would be pretty dead now, though there would probably be some amusement there now. Fashion. Dead like that kid in the grave yard. So sad.

Severus stormed silently into the room, bowed curtly before ignoring them, and taking a seat beside the boy. Like Bellatrix he's taken to watching over the boy. Curiosity, the Dark Lord thought. Or maybe a sense of duty. Narcissa joked that he may enjoy Bella's oppressive presence. She had earned a sneer of malcontent for her comment.

The Order was crumbling. Order itself in the wizarding world wasn't looking too great either. Crime was reportedly on the rise.

Voldemort couldn't help thinking that it was good. Sometimes though, things were disturbingly easy, which made him unpleasantly _un_ easy. This did not please him in the slightest. Easy was one thing, but this was like melting wax. Slow going, sometimes, and usually involved fire.

There were two muggle communities, key word there being _were_ , that could attest to the fact there had been fire.

There was a large part of the man that wished for things to go back to what could be considered normal, with both sides battling for dominance over the other in a seemingly endless struggle, both sides certain of their victory. It was ridiculous, how the whole world had put the world onto the shoulders of a child, though at least he seemed to feel shame for that. He'd been killed by a baby, and thwarted again and again by a child, and it was a shame to him that his whole world seemed to revolve around that child. He even followed the news on the boy sometimes, but he regretted that everything fell onto the shoulders of someone less than half his age, and that was something that the entirety of the wizarding world seemed incapable of. It was just sad.

The Dark Lord almost didn't know where to move from this point. Rearranging his plans was one thing but he almost felt lost now, his objective of sixteen years had fallen short. The boys death had almost been achieved, but not in any way that Voldemort had desired it. The damage done to the teenager made his stomach curl. That was not something to be taken lightly.

He liked to think that children in their care, even muggle children, did not suffer. He knew he was wrong, and that even the children of his servants, his soldiers, his Death Eaters, they often suffered. He still liked to think they did not.

In the skeletal man's mind Bella's words kept repeating themselves. Harry Potter's uncle had tired of the child's "freakishness", and the events that sent him into a coma had clearly not been isolated. He hated the thought, loathed it, that any child would suffer. His own suffering had made him a monster, a murderer. He knew that. He knew his Death Eater's children suffered and he wished he could stop it, but he knew that it was unlikely they would halt their actions and the man certainly couldn't stand to lose followers now. Everything that they had worked for could be lost, and even if they were no longer advancing as he's wanted or planned he would not lose all that progress now.

And suddenly the serpentine man felt exhausted. Energy drained, mind slowed, he allowed rigid posturing to fall a little slack and he slouched minutely where he stood.

"Is something wrong?" Narcissa asked him quietly. She was not a harsh woman, exactly, nor was she overly cold, or strict. She was difficult to describe. Fluid. And now she seemed caring. He could see the analytical look, ever present in her eye just as it was in his own Griffyndor crimson gaze, but there was a warm softness about her now almost. A gentle change, one you would have to be around her constantly to notice. He knew very well that she was aware he noticed the change, but he also knew to not draw attention to it and she would return the favour. After all she had clearly noticed his change in stance.

"The whole situation is wrong. Who leaves their saviour to die? To what purpose does abandoning one who should save you all serve?" He half drawled the words. There was a slight shift in the woman's delicate, stiffly graceful pose.

"You are not the only one to think such things." Narcissa murmured. It reminded him that she was a mother, who cared greatly for her son though she may not show it. Voldemort knew her mind was on that son now, off with his father in France. The white skinned man knew she was imagining her boy in the place of the black haired youth that lay prone before them. He knew that she knew it. She knew that he knew that she knew it.

"Does he still not show signs of waking?" Voldemort asked. Narcissa was quiet for a long moment.

"He is trapped, deep within his mind. His body is struggling to heal itself after a great trauma, and his mind will be no better, but the mind is tricky. The mind often cannot heal itself, not without causing what could be considered further damage. Even with aid the mind remains damaged after it receives the initial trauma. My only guess is that if he is not lost in an endless black void, completely unconscious and numb to the world, or stuck somewhere inside of his head, then he is likely trapped in some hellish coma dream, reliving his worst memories or creating new ones. Who knows if he can even hear us now? Or if he can if it helps. Our words."

The words were spoken with brutal honesty, and just like the rest of the situation they made the Dark Lords stomach curl. It was a terrible fate. He left the room wordlessly.

A glance at Bella's presents table proved that yet again she had brought a gift with her. A single black candle with red flecks in the wax. He wasn't sure if he wanted to know if it was just a candle this time or not. It probably wasn't.

He spent hours buried in the Malfoy library. Texts were scored with thorough eyes and abandoned. The wraith-like man learned little of use, much to his dismay. A few potions and spells that could be used as a sort of last ditch effort, but that would not be of any use otherwise, and an interesting curse or two was all he gained from hours upon hours of weary reading. He'd have felt no shame in going to bed now, it was well past three in the morning and he had left the makeshift hospital room around four in the afternoon.

While he would have felt no shame, Voldemort also knew he would not have slept.

Darkened halls did not light up as their winding paths were explored. Structures loomed and the ancient stone home was too silent. Echoing clicks of footsteps and the rare, distant snores were the only sounds disturbing this deathly quiet night. No spells were uttered, no doors opened, just the constant _ctick ctick ctick_ of a hard heel on worn stone and the shushing sound of fabric in motion.

Anyone watching would not be surprised when all sound and movement stopped outside of one door. A door that stood between a man and a large part of what he once thought to be his destiny. One door was all that separated Harry potter from Lord Voldemort now.

That door was warded, but unlocked. He was one of four people allowed to enter this room without fearing layer upon layer of wards. It opened for him easily and almost soundlessly and the room beyond it was empty save for one occupant. A small, unconscious and unresponsive body that lay as if some sort of decoration across smooth sheets. The Dark Lord sat in one of the chairs at the youth's bedside almost without meaning to.

"I wonder if you have realized now, at least some of why I became who I am." He spoke slowly, tone quiet and low. "I don't even know why I'm speaking now, it's unlikely you can hear me. Some sad pair we make. A foolish man who destroyed himself for the sake of a prophecy, and a mere boy trapped at the wizarding world's beck and call just because his mother loved him. Fools, all of us. Every last wizard, witch and muggle."

A pause.

"I wonder what Dumbledore has told you of me sometimes. King of fools, that man. He is not unworthy of respect, however, now when he could kill a man just as easily as I could. It's a little sad that no one fears him and his power, the way they fear mine. Really they're quite the same."

Another pause.

"I can just imagine you asking why. Or shouting it. You being... still... and quiet... it's abnormal and a tad disquieting, to say the least. Even when I first say you you were full of life. Regardless, all magic is just that; magic. It's your intent and how you use it that marks your path in the craft, and that's something no one seems to know anymore."

A third, much more pregnant pause.

"I apologize, Harry Potter, for much of what I have done to you. I can not say I regret it, but I do apologize. I truly _hope_ that you can't hear me now, I sound like a bloody fool. One half dead boy and I go soft. Pathetic!" He snarled at himself, pausing yet again to blink slowly at the boy. Still, quiet, pale in the weak night light. The man sighed harshly.

"Wake up, Potter brat, before I have to finish the job." He made no effort to move away, not yet.

At nearly six o'clock in the morning Lord Voldemort finally returned to the rooms he had been gifted as his quarters. He prepared himself for bed, moving uncomfortably sluggishly, and folded his clothing and robes neatly before abandoning them on a desk. His sharp teeth were cleaned meticulously before he laid down and tried to sleep.

Voldemort tossed and turned, unhappy and uncomfortable, for what felt like years. When he finally did manage to slip into the realm of dreams his sleep was restless and uneasy. Everything felt dark and wrong, foreign almost and horrifically uncomfortable. It was almost as if he was numb, and trapped in a small, dark box. He couldn't feel, couldn't move, couldn't see. There was nothing to smell, or taste, no sounds reached his ears until they began to generate their own low buzz. Shouting yielded no results, his vocal cords were frozen.

Instead of numbness he suddenly felt very cold, as though his body was becoming ice. He struggled to wrench himself free of the oppressive pressure of the blackness, and wrenched himself free of sleep altogether, sitting up stick straight and wreathed in soft, cool silk sheets.

At eight twenty two AM, he was still exhausted. Horribly so, even more so after the sham that was sleep. It wasn't a hard decision to return to sleep, though he had a sinking feeling of exactly where he had just been. This time, Lord Voldemort's sleep was deep and familiar.


	4. Chapter 4

**Rare authors not at the bottom, you have been warned. Don't worry it's not crazy long.**

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Everything seemed to be falling so predictably into place. The failings of the light without their hero, the restlessness of the Death Eaters, and even his dreams, where he was certain he ended up in Potter's mind. It all felt horribly predictable.

The Death Eaters were angry and restless, and worse: they were bored. There was no challenge or risk for them, and they did the tasks he asked of them, but they were growing steadily more and more restless. The light was collapsing under the weight of it's own failed expectations and though it should have been funny it was just... sad. Sad and annoying. It was becoming increasingly difficult to control some of his followers, the ones half crazed and desperate for action most notably.

The child had shown no improvement, and Bellatrix was acting rather sickeningly sweet. She would still torture anyone who dared to look at her funny in the halls, but in the makeshift hospice it was at sugary coo's and gentle touches. She'd managed to collect a little pile of gifts that had been allowed into the room, as well as the mountain growing outside of it. That pile consisted of a stuffed unicorn that was missing it's eyes, what appeared to be a muggle pen, and a small mountain of acid pops, blood lollies, and, most normal of the pile, a box of Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans where every bean in the box was a shade of blue. Four wands "borrowed" from people who no longer needed them had also managed to make their home inside the room.

The pile outside had had a cursed book, jar, quill and candle holder added to it's midst, the black and red candle in it's twisting metal grasp, as well as what appeared to be two stolen wallets, a very bloody hand bag, a chunk of flesh from the fat muggle in the dungeons and what appeared to be a bowl of eye balls. Everyone liked to avoid this hallway, unless they were a regular in this room, as no one wanted to become a part of Bella's next gift, nor see those who had already contributed. Or at least what was left of them. Bellatrix was still a person to be feared.

In spite of her piles, and her presents, her presence too, the boy had not moved or showed any signs of regaining consciousness and it had been almost a month. The people around him had watched relentlessly, someone was almost always at his side even if they were asleep. Voldemort visited the blackness of the boys mind, never finding anything or seeing anything, unable to move in the oppressive, heavy darkness.

None of this though stopped him from thinking every single thing that had occurred since the reveal of Potter's address had been terribly coincidental, and horribly predictable. Surprisingly he was not ashamed to admit that it bothered him greatly. It was like a chess game, but whomever was moving the pieces wan't very good. The choices they'd made, Bellatrix's sudden affection for the child, even the position they had found him in, all like a poorly written story.

He sighed. He was alone with the boy right now. Even that seemed like it was fate and he expected the boy to wake up any second now with a jolt, panic or say something prophetic. Narcissa was fire-calling her husband, Bella was off collecting things for her piles and Severus had been called by Dumbledore. So he was alone with a body, Bella's "safe" pile, and his thoughts.

Thunder rolled faintly in the distance, and the sky was cloudy and grey. The winds were faint, brushing against windows with the caress of a lover rather than the hard rattling of an angered assailant. Light shone faintly through the pale grey sheets in the sky, and the forests below should have been beautiful. The whole scene should have been striking. It should have felt like hope, and beauty, but it felt like ash. It was all muted and empty, still and unfeeling, and that in itself felt like just another cliche. The part of him that wasn't half expecting Harry to jolt awake was expecting him to die. It was like waiting for a bomb to go off, or for an unavoidable curse to finally hit skin, and this feeling made the skeletal white man uncomfortable to say the least.

Voldemort stared blankly out the window, a slim fingered hand covering the lower half of his face like a mask. His nose was hidden under his palm, and breathing was an uncomfortable task. Thin appendages stretched out like a web over the rest of his face, over his cheeks and between his eyes. His almost lipless mouth was pursed slightly, brows furrowed and vermilion eyes glaring. His back rested in a comfortable, graceless slump and his elbows were digging into his knees. Dressed completely in black and looking as he did, he knew anyone who looked at this image now would see Death waiting beside the boy, bidding his time until he could take the kid to the afterlife.

"Wake up, Potter." He half snarled at the still form, which gave no reply. He waited, a long, uncomfortable pause before speaking again. Not once did he look away from the window.

"I grow tired of waiting for you." And he was met with silence. Glaring eyes closed.

"Please?" He tried vainly. There was no answer to his request, and the eyes remained closed. He moved to sit up a little bit more in the chair he occupied, tilting his head back and rolling his neck, eyes closed all the while. He wasn't tired, not at all, and he spared a brief thought to how much of a coincidence it would be if he fell asleep here, or accidentally used legimency on Potter and found himself trapped in blackness once more.

This was not the case.

Frustrated and agitated he began to wonder if Potter's mind was even still in his brain. He recalled the boy's pain, when he touched the lightning scar two years ago and he was almost tempted to try it now, to see any sort of reaction. One pale hand stretched out, slowly, _slowly_ , and just hovered there. Long minutes, until his hand was wracked with tremors. He did not once lower his hand even the slightest of fractions, nor did he raise it. It was only when he went to move his hand away completely that he found he could not. He spared an irritated thought to the words ' _of course._ ' Something had to happen while he was alone with the boy, and seeing as that wasn't sudden wakefulness or death something like this was just as fitting.

A sneer pulled at his lips and he did what was probably the only thing he could do and lowered his hand. Spots flashed over his vision disorientingly until they turned it completely white. Blackness settles in soon after, not quite the heavy dark he'd grown accustomed to.

This time the darkness lifted, colours blurring slowly into place to create pictures that ebbed and flowed oddly. The images themselves did not move once, but how solid they were, how crisp they stayed, it was never the same. It was a bit dizzying. The flickering picture became one he recognized; Hogwarts. Part of this unsettled him greatly, seeing the first place he had known as home now. Voldemort knew he wasn't the only person to consider Hogwarts home, let alone the first to consider it their first home, but he couldn't help thinking that out of all the things he could share with Harry Potter ' _I don't want this to be one of them._ '

The entrance steps felt solid underneath his feet, worn and cool, and just as familiar as they were strange. Inside was the same, as he walked halls he knew. They felt so achingly familiar and it almost felt right to be here, to be in any version of the first home he had known... But it also felt horribly wrong. It felt different, changed, over fifty years had passed since he'd last been inside the castle on his own two feet. Looking down at his hand felt wrong too, they weren't made of bony chalk-like whiteness anymore, though they were still long, pale and slim. Colour and life had returned to his flesh and he knew that upon waking he would feel hitter about their return to the stark appearance of a skeleton.

Lifting one of his hands he touched his face. Eyebrows and hair, his nose wasn't flat and reptilian and his mouth... he almost felt sick knowing that in this place he looked just as he had the last time he had been in this place. He didn't dare confirm it in any mirror or reflective surface, he just knew. It felt exactly as he remembered it once had.

This entire situation was grinding on the Dark Lord's nerves.

He stalked the halls now, passing old classrooms where old professors had since been replaced, other rooms he recognized that had fallen out of use. The library, the Great Hall, the kitchens... all empty. Doors he passed opened of their own accord and closed as he passed. Even the Gryffindor common room was devoid of life. A search of the dormitories yielded the same results. Nothing. It was all eerily quiet and at this point Voldemort almost preferred the crushing darkness.

So he wandered. He sat in the rooms, remembering lectures and lessons. He sat in Dumbledore's chair, the ostentatious thing that it was, and remembered the meals he'd enjoyed in this place. Sat at the tables, named dead school mates, named the ones that he knew still lived. Watched the ceiling, dark as it was. Halls were walked and all the while the only sounds were his own footsteps, and his own voice. He peered out of windows, dusty and dim, passed suits of armour, statues, alcoves that held memories and ones that didn't. Everywhere he went here was something familiar. Shadows danced in odd places and sat still in places they should dance.

More than a little frustrated he made his way down to the dungeons. They were just as cold and musty as he remembered, and it was almost a relief. In hindsight, he felt he should have come here first.

In the old common room, so similar and yet so very different, he found what he had been searching for all along. Sitting on one of the couches, head tilted and eyes closed, was a still form he was familiar with. There was a book clutched in little hands, fingers marking the pages. Harry Potter was fast asleep before him. He was sick of seeing the boy's eyes closed, and seeing him still, but he left him this time and took a seat near him in one of the room's arm chairs. It felt different from the ones he remembered being here, worn soft with age. These were not hard or uncomfortable by any means, just different.

He waited for what could have been minutes, or years.

Harry woke slowly, yawning a little and stretching until his back popped a little painfully. He scratched lightly at his messy hair. Thee scar on his forehead was pale and faded silver in colour. He jolted when the Dark Lord spoke.

"Potter." A single, two syllable word, Harry's name. Green eyes locked on burning red ones, set into a handsome face. The connection was broken when Voldemort moved the slightest bit to stare at a painting.

"Riddle?" Harry's voice cracked lowly. He became guarded and unsure in an instant. Voldemort snorted lightly, a little unhappily. Clearly the boy spend far too much time around Dumbledore, but he felt a little pleased that the teen hadn't gone straight for his given first name.

"You spend too much time with the old coot." He snorted almost daintily. He made no move to say anything else yet. A deep silence stretched out from the end of his words. Harry made no move to return to his book and Voldemort made no move to do anything, not even to stare at the boy.

"What do you want?" The green eyed teen finally broke the silence, and it didn't sound like much of a question. He sounded angry, desolate and defeated.

"What makes you think I want something?" The Dark Lord responded coolly.

"What would make me think you don't want something?" Harry replied a little waspishly. It earned him a considering look. Green eyes widened a little as he seemed to realize exactly what he had just said to who.

"Touche," Was all he said before returning his gaze to the art. "How much do you remember?"

"Of."

"Before you wound up here." Voldemort realized the the only solid things here, truly solid, were himself and the boy before him. The shifting ebb and flow of the world around them was less disorienting to the older man now.

His words were met with silence. A very long silence. When it was broken the speaker was clearly uncomfortable.

"I remember going home for the summer. Why does it matter to you?" The question was snapped out rather sharply.

"You are aware of what a coma is, are you not?" This question earned the Dark Lord an unhappy look.

"Why?" harry replied with another question.

"Because you are in one."

"I know."

These words were met with another very long silence. It grew increasingly uncomfortable the longer it wore on. Red eyes fixed on green in a long, unbroken and slightly awkward stare. This time the quiet was broken by Voldemort.

"Have you not tried to get out of it?" Harry shook his head. He looked away from the man in the chair and fixed his gaze on the cover of his book.

"Why?"

"I'm assuming you know what happened to me," this was met with a single nod as Harry continued speaking. "I don't want to go back to that. Simple as that."

"If you could be safe from it?" And another long pause reigned. Minutes passed, maybe hours. Neither of them knew.

"Why would I be safe from it?" Was eventually what broke the quiet.

"The night you fell into it, Severus Snape gave us your location. You've been under the care of Narcissa and Severus since we found you nearly dead."

"Always new Snape was a traitor." Was all Harry said.

"He has his moments," Voldemort brushed off the comment with a wave."The point is you, or at least your body, has been with us for almost a month now. Maybe more than a month now, maybe not. Time here is... unusual, shall we say."

Harry nodded slowly.

"Would your _followers_ not attack me?" The word followers was spat hatefully.

"Bella's been bringing you gifts."

"Bellatrix _Lestange_?" It was half shouted with surprise. Voldemort nodded in confirmation. Emerald eyes narrowed.

"All the more reason not to wake up then."

"I'm sure if I can get out of here she'll be sorry to here that. She's taken a rather alarming liking to you. Or at least your body. It was her idea, shockingly, that we take you back with us and save your life. I wont pretend that there wasn't selfish reasoning behind that, I know you wont appreciate it." This was met with a furious glare. Harry ranted in angry little mutters for what had to be a good five minutes before speaking clearly again.

"I don't exactly appreciate you being here either." He said at last.

"It was not my intention to come here, believe me." The reply was accompanied with another little snort.

"What do you want." Harry repeated, still glaring.

"Wake up. That is all."

"Why?" This time harry stood hard and fast, arms flung wide as he shouted at a man who could kill him without second thoughts. "What purpose does that serve? So you can look me in the eyes as you kill me? Torture me?"

"No," Voldemort was almost unnaturally calm. "I want you to wake up and live. Return hope to the light. Without you they have fallen apart and it's both annoying and pathetic. Help us crush the light. Do nothing. Just wake up. That is all I want from you right now, and it is all I have wanted for the last month."

"Go away." harry hissed, almost in parseltongue.

"I can't do that yet Harry. I'm not negotiating with you. If you want you can wake up and leave this place, you're at Malfoy Manor. You can leave the country if you want."

"But I don't _want_ to wake up!" He shouted.

"I'm not arguing this Potter. You either wake up, or you still get to put up with me for as long as you're in this place. I doubt you want either option very much but it is not my intention or that of any of my followers to cause you harm, especially not right now. Wake up and if any of my followers do decide to give you grief then they can deal with me. Or Bella. Honestly I'd be surprised if I ever met someone who didn't fear her at least a little."

"Are you afraid of her?"

"In some ways yes. I've seen what she does to people, even ones on her own side. She has a good number of Death Eater casualties under her belt." Harry made a little humming sound. before speaking.

"Why put up with her then?"

"She's useful." Voldemort said simply.

"Am I useful to you?" Harry snarled lowly.

"No, not really. At least not yet. If you like you could be. If not, whatever. I've put enough time and effort into your well being recently that I don't care what you do just wake up."

"What _effort_ have you put into _my_ well being?!" The shouting was back.

"I brought you back in the first place, helped Narcissa keep Bella's _presents_ out of the room, kept your muggle relatives alive," he said that part with great disdain colouring his voice. "And I stayed. When I entered this place I was the only one with you, I don't know if that's true now. I invested in your continued survival and while it may have been for selfish reasons I still did so."

"That's nothing."

"If you see Bella's presents trust me, it's something."

This earned a graceless snort from the teenager.

"Why all the effort then." Harry asked.

"I don't know." Was the simple response.

How can you not know?" Harry asked, green eyes kind of wide. All of the sudden it really seemed to hit him that he was talking to the Dark Lord in his head.

"Potter." He was warned lightly.

"Sorry." The apology was almost sheepish in nature.

"Will you wake up? I'm sure your parent's wouldn't want to see you die in your teens." Voldemort tried.

"Low blow, Voldy."

"Voldy? Never repeat that to anyone, please and thank you. And I know, subtlety is lost on you." Red eyes rolled almost good-naturedly.

"I have demands that must be met." Harry warned.

"I'm sure we'll see what we can do to meet your demands, Potter." The red eyed man half promised and for a moment Harry was silent.

"I guess I can wake up then." And he stood up, walking slowly towards the entrance of the Slytherin common room. Voldemort followed carefully, curiously.

"How do you wake up anyways?" He asked, staring at the teenager.

"Just walk far enough off the property, into the Forest is good." Harry answered with a shrug. The walked in silence, and the Dark Lord found that the closer he got to the Forbidden Forest, the sicker he felt. It started at the base of his ribs, spanning out uncomfortably until he felt like he was about to vomit. By this point they were deep in the Forest and Harry was clearly no better off.

"We.. do not speak a word of this... to anyone..." Voldemort spoke slowly.

"A-agreed." Harry stammered, stumbling a little. They staggered their way further and further into the dense trees until the world began to sway rather than pulse. The trees darkened in colour until everything was waving and twisting with barely there colours. The dense undergrowth they trudged through seemed to only get thicker and thicker, slowing them down. When it all finally swirled to black neither felt their bodies hit the ground.

And there, resting on a transfigured bed beside Harry Potter's in Malfoy manor, the Dark Lord jolted up in place from where he had been resting, hand pulling away from Harry's forehead as though burned by it. He was breathing as though he'd run across all of Britain, drenched in sweat and skin horrifically white and thin. Skeletal.

Voices shouted to him, and they sounded as though they were reaching his ears from deep under water.

His hands flew to his face. Hairless and reptilian once more he was caught between disappointment and relief. Finally he was properly jolted back into reality by a pair of deep, almost endless pair of striking stormy grey eyes. Eyes that he recognized as those of Bellatrix Lestrange.

Sounds crashed clearly into his ears, and everything leapt more clearly into focus. Bellatrix jolted away, hands leaving his shoulders just as soon as he realized they were there. Her dark curls flew every which way in their normal, haywire mess, bouncing He opened his mouth ready to curse her, but instead the words that left his mouth were ones of almost confusion.

"What... has happened?" His throat felt raw.

"Oh thank Merlin, my Lord, you have been gone for weeks!" Bellatrix gasped, hands fluttering as though she didn't know what to do with them. "I was worried."

"What did you do?" Narcissa's voice pierced his still slightly foggy mind. "What did you _do_?!"

His crimson gaze snapped over to her, leaning over the boy and her hair falling out of what was once an elegant bun. There was a bright flush over her cheeks as she used her own body to hold down the upper half of Harry's thrashing body while Severus struggled to force a potion down him throat. For a long moment he stared at her blankly. Whatever Severus had done, the child's thrashing slowed, then stopped and the Malfoy matriarch remover herself from the once again still body. She raged over, elegant as ever and clearly very mad.

" _What_ did you _do_?!" She shouted again. Throat burning and head beginning to spin the Dark Lord looked her right in the eye and spoke in a low, detached voice.

"I have no idea."

And his body fell back limply into the pile of pillows, eyes closed, and completely unconscious.

.

.

* * *

 **To guest who commented** Nearly all of the punctuation in your dialogue is incorrect. Please edit your story. (You should open one of the Harry Potter books to see how to write dialogue-I doubt you've read them.) **if you ever see this** **I am going to point out I am not British and I shall assume you are merely for the "/' difference unless you are referring to my phrasing. I own all of the Harry Potter books and movies yes, and I know how J.K. writes and clearly that is not how I write, not that the first part of that truly has anything to do with my story. If you have an issue with it, don't read it it's not a very difficult concept, and my dialogue is correct for my country in accordance to all of my teachings, knowledge and writing samples (aka other books maybe you should pick one up some time). Some of my punctuation, maybe not quite as much, though I am fairly certain it is not entirely incorrect either as you so claim, but regardless if you wish to complain kindly give some evidence or reasoning to support your complaints, else wise they will be ignored or I will treat them exactly like I did this one. Helpful criticism and feedback is appreciated. Your comment however is neither helpful, constructive or appreciated.**

 **Thanks,**

 **The author.**


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